


hold me down

by tgrsndshrks



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Omorashi, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John figures it's best to just spit it out, like ripping off a stubborn bandaid. “How do you bring up sex things with people?” John asks.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or, john has a wetting kink and doesn't know how to tell tim about it. both ginger and jeordie are solicited for advice. hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold me down

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again krispy kreme
> 
> shout out to julia in particular this time for helping me figure some of this shit out.
> 
> this is my first ws fic in like 87 years so!! cool!!
> 
> my depression has been worse lately which has somehow manifested in me writing a bunch of funny shit, so, enjoy my suffering i guess.
> 
> title from the you me at six album??
> 
> DISCLAIMER (added to author’s notes of all fics w/ twiggy in them on nov. 13 2017): i no longer support jeordie white/twiggy ramirez after he was accused of rape and sexual assault/harassment by several people, particularly an ex girlfriend. i’m not sure if i’m going to leave these fics up on my page or orphan them, but i want to publicly state that as a Real Life Person, i do not fuck with twiggy at all anymore and will not be including him in fics from hereon out. i do not endorse his behavior and the character in this fic is a completely fictionalized character, independent of the real life jeordie/twiggy.

John can't stop thinking about it.

He feels stupid for obsessing over it, churning it over and over in his brain till it hurts his stomach. The sunlight is starting to leak in around the blackout curtains and Tim's still asleep, his face smushed into the pillow. John is awake before their alarm again. It's another show day, and they're in Europe somewhere.

John's known Tim for years, he figures. They've only been sleeping together a few weeks, but John trusts him. Of course he does. It's just that _this_. This.

John turns back over and presses his face into Tim's shoulder, pushing the worries away for now. They'll be apart for a few weeks soon, before Ozzfest, and John thinks it's best to just appreciate Tim being here for now.

-

When John finally gets to his dressing room, Ginger's already dressed and putting his makeup on. John doesn't say anything. He just drops his guitar down on the couch and goes over to the clothing rack, grabbing at his stage outfit.

Ginger is staring at him. John doesn't have to look. He can just feel it. Ginger has a weird presence.

“You alright?” Ginger asks.

“Yeah,” John says, ignoring Ginger as he changes. He doesn't say anything after that, and Ginger doesn't verbally question it, even as John joins him at the mirror and starts smearing white on his face. Ginger just glances at him every thirty seconds or so, obviously aware that John is, in fact, not alright. 

John finally sighs, shutting the compact and tossing it down on the table.

“Okay,” John says. “Have you ever like, been in a situation where everything is fine between you and somebody else, but you have something you wanna tell them, but you also really don't want to screw up a good thing? So you're like, trying to figure out whether it's better to tell them and have them potentially be mad, or not tell them and you have to sit there and just. Try not to explode by keeping a secret?”

Ginger's eyes drift off. “You mean like the time you had to tell me that chickpeas are in hummus, even though I've always said I hated chickpeas?” John opens his mouth, then closes it. Yeah, he can work with food metaphors.

“Sure,” John says. “Because like, you love hummus.” Ginger nods. “You and hummus have a good thing going. But I thought you should know there's chickpeas in hummus, because that information is important. But it could have ruined what you had going on with hummus.”

“Is this about Tim?” Ginger asks.

“Who?” John sputters, undoubtedly looking very stupid. “I mean, what about Tim?”

“That you're sleeping with him?” Ginger asks. John is pretty sure his cheeks are visibly red even under the thick layer of Ben Nye Clown White. “Dude, everyone knows. It's fine.”

“How?” John asks. And here he thought he'd been discreet.

“Could be because you called him daddy in Germany last week,” Ginger says, turning back to the mirror. “Just a thought.”

“You weren't supposed to _hear that_ ,” John says, resisting the urge to smear his hand across his face.

“Well, Pogo did, and we all know how big his mouth gets after he's downed a few,” Ginger says, rifling through a pile of identical black MAC compacts and turning them over to read the labels.

“Okay, fine,” John says, shaking his head. “It's not the daddy thing. It's something else.”

“What is it?” Ginger asks, finally finding the compact he wants.

“It's, uh,” John says, “a sex thing.”

“Okay,” Ginger says slowly. “What, does Tim want you to do something weird like put on an SS uniform and call him _mein Fuehrer_ during sex?”

“I – what?” John stutters. Ginger shrugs.

“I guess Nazi uniforms are Manson's fetish,” Ginger remarks.

“No, it's -” John starts, then stops, looking down at his compact again. “It's me. It's weird though. Not Nazi role playing weird, but weird.”

“So what is it?” Ginger asks. John picks his compact up, opens it, closes it, and then opens it again. He shifts his weight between his feet a few times, hoping maybe Ginger will forget what they were talking about or someone will invent teleportation and he can just zap himself somewhere else, preferably into the sun. “Hello, Earth to John.” Ginger jabs him with an elbow.

“Ow,” John says, rubbing his arm. “Jeez.”

“Don't leave me hanging,” Ginger says. “At least give me a genre. Like, are we talking something dangerous? Or is it like, kinda gross?”

“It's pretty gross,” John says, deliberately not looking at Ginger. He grabs an eyeshadow compact and smears black on his eyelids. “Well, it's. Messy.”

“Oh, okay,” Ginger says, nodding. “Are we talking bodily fluids?”

“You're awfully casual about this,” John says.

“I've been in a van full of grown men vomiting McDonald's breakfast on each other for laughs,” Ginger says.

“How did no one die on that tour?” John asks.

“Genuinely don't know,” Ginger says.

“Okay, well, it's not that,” John says, popping the cap off a tube of lipstick and considering the color. “It's.” He sighs, closing his eyes and swallowing the brick of ice in his throat. “It's peeing.”

“So you want him to piss on you?” Ginger asks. John feels him looking at him but he doesn't open his eyes. “Dude, that's not that weird.”

“It's totally weird,” John says. He goes back to looking at lipsticks.

“I mean, maybe my definition of weird is skewed, because I once participated in covering a girl with lunchmeat,” Ginger says. “I didn't fuck her though. That was Pogo.”

John squints. “I don't think I want more details,” he says.

“Not important,” Ginger says. “Point is, just talk to him. What's the worst that could happen?”

“He dumps me and never speaks to me again?” John offers, finally settling on a lipstick color. 

“Well, you guys do other weird shit, right?” Ginger says.

“I guess,” John says, trying very hard not to think about that.

“So just tell him,” Ginger says.

“But it's gross,” John says, smearing red around his mouth.

“Well,” Ginger says, “we only have one show after tonight left before the break. Maybe you should tell him now and then he can think about it while you two aren't all but forced to be together all day.” He makes a gesture with his hands, holding them together and then spreading them apart. “Space.”

“I guess,” John says. This would mean a discussion, which means planning, which means he needs time. “Maybe I'll tell him tomorrow.”

“Fair enough.” Ginger shrugs, looking back over at John. “I mean, you can tell him you're nervous about it.” John wrings his hands, looks at himself in the mirror.

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks, Ginj.”

“You're welcome,” Ginger says. “Are we done with the feelings now?”

“Yes, jeez Louise,” John scoffs, giving him an elbow jab, and Ginger laughs, shoving him back.

-

Tim feels like going out that night. John decides he'd rather stay in the hotel room watch a movie or something, so Tim makes him promise not to take a shower without him, and John smiles and nods before twisting their pinkies together and swearing on it.

John's about ten minutes into some shitty film with the bottom half of the screen obscured by Austrian subtitles when he grabs the hotel phone off the nightstand and dials.

“Hello?” the drowsy voice on the other end goes.

“Did I wake you up?” John asks.

“Who's this?” Jeordie mumbles, sniffing loudly into the receiver.

“It's John,” John says.

“Oh, shit,” Jeordie says. “Aren't you guys in Europe? What time is it?”

“It's like midnight,” John says.

“Why aren't you out?” Jeordie asks. There's shuffling on the other end of the line.

“Benefits of clean living I guess,” John remarks, sparing a glance at Tim's extra pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. 

“Anyway, you woke me up, yes,” Jeordie says. “So what makes you call from bumfuck nowhere at midnight.” 

John figures it's best to just spit it out, like ripping off a stubborn bandaid. “How do you bring up sex things with people?” John asks.

“What kind of sex things?” Jeordie asks.

“Like, kinky sex things.”

“Elaborate.”

“It's not _physically_ dangerous. Just. Dangerous to bring up I guess.”

“So it's emotionally dangerous,” Jeordie says. “Interesting. That's where all the fun is, y'know.”

“Sure,” John says, smearing his face, because Jeordie isn't exactly wrong.

“I think you just kind of ask them,” Jeordie says. “Like, 'can you call me a stupid whore' or whatever.”

“What, while he's having a cigarette?” John asks.

“Sure,” Jeordie says. “I figure it's better to ask when you're not naked, y'know. Because then if he says no, then you're not just laying there with your dick out.”

John considers asking about that experience, but doesn't. “It's just that we've been... sleeping together for awhile now, so I don't want to fuck everything up with my weird request.”

“Is this about your pee thing?” Jeordie asks, and John's face burns. Jeordie knows about it only because they used to share hotel rooms and a very confused Jeordie had walked in on John fully clothed in the shower having pissed himself, and there was nothing to do but be honest.

“Yes,” John sighs.

“You're so hung up on it, dude,” Jeordie says. “I watched Pogo fuck a deaf chick covered in lunchmeat once. It's not that weird.”

“Y'know, I talked to Ginger about it and he mentioned that exact same story,” John says. “Someday I'm gonna ask for more details but today is not that day.”

“He said he was going to cum in her useless ear canal, John.”

“I think I liked it better when we didn't talk.”

“You hated that,” Jeordie says, “and you called me.”

John makes a face. “So you think I should just tell him?” he asks.

“Yeah, dude. Give him a minute to think about it,” Jeordie says. “You've had years to be hung up on this. It's probably new to him. He might want to give it a go just to try it.”

“It's not even about him being into the actual peeing,” John says. “It's more like. I want him to make me do it. Does that make sense.”

“Kind of,” Jeordie says, then he pauses. “Wait, is this about Tim?” John chews his lip, hoping it isn't a sore subject.

“Yeah, but it's not important,” John says. “I guess I'm just worried because we're going to be apart for a few weeks before Ozzfest.”

“Nah, it definitely is important,” Jeordie says, snorting a laugh. “Just talk to him. It'll be fine. You can talk to him now and get it over with or in a few weeks while being miserable every day in the meantime.”

“You make a convincing argument,” John says, twisting the phone cord around his finger.

“That's why you called me,” Jeordie says.

“Why are you so sure he'll go along with it?” John asks.

“Just _talk_ to him. I gotta go, okay?”

“Okay,” John pouts, and Jeordie hangs up.

-

It's the last day of their European tour.

John's sitting on the drum riser during sound check, catching Tim's glance whenever he turns around to tweak his amp stacks. John's got his favorite gold telecaster and he's absently playing, even though it's not plugged in. 

“Hey,” Ginger's voice goes, startling John, who'd been staring at Tim's back.

“Hi,” John says, turning back to look at Ginger, who's sitting at his kit. 

“So, did you talk to him?” Ginger asks, his voice quiet. John blushes. Unfortunately, he's not wearing any makeup to hide it this time.

“I'm going to,” he says softly.

“Fuck that!” Manson yells from somewhere on the other side of the stage. “I don't want that there!”

“Well, I was thinking,” Ginger says, “about the thing with me and chickpeas and hummus.”

“What?” John asks, even though this is far from the strangest thing Ginger has said to him out of context. “Oh. Right. About you liking hummus but not chickpeas.”

“But I still like hummus.”

“Yes.”

“Even though there's chickpeas in it.” Ginger holds his hands out, like that's it, and it's somehow supposed to be some sort of revelation.

John looks at Ginger. “I don't follow,” he says.

“I like hummus for what it is, despite disliking one of its components, right?” Ginger says, gesticulating enthusiastically. “So, you're the hummus. This thing of yours is the chickpeas. If _you know who_ likes you for being hummus, then he's not going to care that it's one of the individual components he doesn't care for. Because he likes the final product.” John looks back at Tim, who's kneeling at his pedalboard. He wonders for a moment why he doesn't have a tech doing it before remembering he's brought a dozen guitars and their tech has to tune all of them.

“I think I get what you mean,” John says.

“Right,” Ginger says. “I knew you would.”

“In all fairness,” John says, “maybe stick to drumming instead of motivational speaking.”

“Planning on it,” Ginger says, John cringing as Ginger opens a soda can with his teeth. 

-

The show goes as well as it always does, in that there's a minor disaster, but they manage to not completely crash and burn. Shows with Manson were always like that – the train skidding off the rails at the bends but never actually overturning. Manson's mic is off for an entire verse of Fight Song, and John breaks a string, but it's okay. Nobody loses consciousness and there's no severe injuries.

There's an afterparty, at a club down the street from the venue. John goes, because he figures it'd be rude not to go to your own tour's afterparty, even though there isn't much for him to do. He drinks a soda and sits at the bar with Tim, who's decided not to drink either, out of some sort of sympathy or kindness for John. Tim stands up, announcing he's going out to smoke a cigarette.

“I'll go with you,” John says, hastily downing his Coke.

“You don't have to,” Tim says. “I know you don't like the smoke.”

“Nah, it's fine,” John says. “I just wanna go outside.”

So they do, weaving through people to get to the back exit, that leads out to an alley. Tim pulls out his pack and lights up, purposely standing down wind from John so the smoke doesn't blow into him.

“You alright?” Tim asks, reaching over to grab John's hand. He holds his fingers and John curls them together, frowning.

“I just,” he says, and for the millionth time since joining this stupid band he wishes he had a vice other than expensive vintage guitars and big tits. And toppy blonde men with strong jaw lines that speak Swedish and French. “It's complicated.”

“We got time,” Tim says, stepping a little closer but flicking his ashes away from John. “What's up?”

“Um,” John says, pushing his hair back out of his face. “It's kind of a personal thing? It's a secret. About me. Not like, a big important one, but. It's a thing.” Tim squints at him, taking a long drag.

“Alright,” Tim says. “We can talk about it at the hotel if you want?”

“I think that'd probably be better,” John says, wincing. “It's just? It's a sex thing.” Tim's face falls a bit, and John instantly regrets saying it.

“Are you not happy?” Tim asks, and John shakes his head quickly, pulling him closer.

“No, no, no,” John says. “I am! I'm really happy. You're _great_. Honest.” It sounds phony though. “Holy moly, I'm the worst at this. I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” Tim says, smiling weakly. “I believe you though. Just tell me when we get back to the hotel room, okay?”

“Okay,” John says, and Tim surprises him with a quick kiss. John flushes. It's not really public, but it's the first time Tim's kissed him outside their hotel rooms, and it feels nice. Tim tastes like smoke in a way that's not unpleasant. He pulls away and takes a last drag, holding it in as he flicks the cigarette butt to the ground and smashes it under his boot.

“Let's go now,” Tim says. “I don't want you to have to worry about telling me something, okay?” John blushes.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I mean, it's the end of tour-”

“And we're starting Ozzfest in a couple weeks,” Tim says, shrugging. “It's one afterparty. We're not gonna miss anything important.”

“What about-”

“Shush,” Tim says, grabbing John's wrist and pulling him back into the club.

John doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything until they get back to the hotel and Tim's sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him expectantly. John's rehearsed it in his head a million times just today. Thought through every possible outcome, every single thing Tim might say to him. Except now that Tim's tilting his head, raising an eyebrow, it's got John wringing his hands and trying to remember what he wanted to say and in what order it was supposed to go.

“So,” John says.

“So,” Tim says.

“We've established that it's a sex thing,” John says.

“Right,” Tim says. “And it's not that you're not satisfied.”

“No,” John says. “I mean. Are you?”

“John,” Tim says. “ _Clearly_.”

“Well, I wouldn't know,” John says. “I'm not fucking me.” Tim snorts.

“Okay, so, get on with it,” he says. John stalls again, looking at the floor.

“It's not that I don't like the sex we're having,” John says, pushing his hair back. “It's that there's. Another thing. I'd like to involve in said sex.”

“Like, a fetish kinda thing?” Tim asks.

“More or less,” John says.

“Oh, okay,” Tim says, looking a little relieved. “I mean, I'm probably gonna be fine with it. What is it?”

John holds his face in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment he considers telling Tim he's into something else, something relatively normal, like bondage or wearing lingerie. He's in too deep. He can't bail out now. He pinches the bridge of his nose, doesn't open his eyes.

“It's, uh,” John says, “piss.”

Tim doesn't make any noise, so John peeks at him through a squinted eye. He's just got his brows furrowed, looking a bit put off.

“That's it?” Tim asks.

“Yes?” John says.

“Dude,” Tim says. “You looked like you were going to tell me you're into something _actually_ fucked up, like Nazi role playing or something.”

“Why does everyone think I'm gonna be into fucking Nazi fetishism?” John asks, throwing his arms down in defeat.

“Who else did?” Tim asks.

“Ginger!” John says.

“I thought you were gonna say Manson tried to get you to do it.”

“Criminy,” John mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “So, you don't think I'm disgusting?”

“Clearly, no,” Tim says. “I mean. You want to do it?”

“I have before. I mean,” John says quickly, “I've only ever done it by myself, but it's – it's kind of specific.”

“Okay,” Tim says. “Tell me.”

John makes a face, but Tim hasn't thrown him out of their hotel room yet, so. “It's basically – it's not about the peeing itself so much as being really _desperate_ to pee. Like, having a full bladder. And then not being allowed to go to the toilet when I have to piss. And then eventually having to piss myself because I'm not allowed to use the toilet.”

Tim shrugs. “Okay,” he says. “Do you have to go right now?”

John blinks. “That's it?” he asks.

“Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Doesn't do anything for me but obviously you're into it, so I'll do it.”

“Fuck,” John says feelingly. “Okay. Yeah, okay. In these clothes?”

“Oh, in the clothes?” Tim asks. “Yeah, sure. Why not. It's not the grossest thing we've ever sent to have washed.” John laughs once.

“I guess,” he says. “But um. Could you like, make me drink some water? Like, you're pretending to force me.”

“Got it,” Tim says, standing up. “You want me to force you to do stuff. That's the fantasy. I'm on the same page now.” He gives John a firm kiss, then goes to the bathroom to get a glass of water.

John doesn't really panic until Tim's out of the room.

It sets in that it's going to happen, and his blood runs hot, stomach coiling as the bathroom tap runs. Tim returns with a full glass of water, offers it to him.

“I don't want to,” John says. Tim looks hurt.

“But you just said-”

“Tim,” John says, sighing. “I said I wanted you to _make_ me do it.”

“Oh, right, fuck,” Tim says. He shakes his head once, as if to reboot himself. “Okay, let me try again.” He holds the water out. “Drink.”

“I don't want to,” John says again.

“Well, I want you to, so you're going to,” Tim says. John takes the glass, bites his lip. Tim lowers his voice. “You'll say _red_ if you actually want to stop, right?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” John says, taking a few swallows of water. “Is that enough?” he asks.

“Drink the whole thing,” Tim says, tilting the glass up again. John lets him do it, and Tim keeps the glass tilting, forcing John to drink it so it doesn't spill on him. Once he's downed it all, Tim smirks, looking at him expectantly. “What do we do now?”

“I mean, I kind of have to pee,” John says. “If you give me more water then I'm _really_ gonna have to go.”

Tim seems to get the hint. He gives John another glass of water, and another, till John starts shifting his weight between his feet. Tim notices. He swallows visibly.

“C'mere,” Tim says, pressing a hand to John's flat stomach over his shirt. John gasps, grabs Tim's shoulders, jerks away.

“Don't push on it,” he says, squeezing his legs together.

“I'm not,” Tim says, his hand sliding under John's t-shirt. John stays still as Tim feels. “I can feel it,” he says. “If I push on your stomach, will you-”

“I don't know,” John says, whining. “Can we just go stand in the shower? It's getting bad.”

“You don't wanna just do it here?” Tim asks.

“I'm not paying for the housekeeping bill,” John says, swatting him.

“Okay, fine,” Tim says, John practically dragging him into the bathroom. He rushes into the shower, but Tim stops at the sink, John watching in abject horror as he fills the glass up. Again.

“Tim,” John whimpers.

“I figure if we're doing this we may as well go for it,” Tim says, stepping into the shower. He pauses. “If you really don't want to drink this you can safe word.”

John bites his lip. He doesn't say anything. Tim smirks, laughs once, and tilts John's head back, bringing the glass to his lips and making him drink. John lets out a long sigh, watching Tim set the glass to the side.

“How do you feel?” Tim asks.

“Like I gotta pee,” John remarks, and Tim cracks a smile. “I'm – I'm probably gonna need you to like, hold my arms down.”

“I can definitely do that,” Tim says, taking John's wrists. He guides John back against the shower wall, pins his arms to it, and John hisses at the cold tile. “I'm sure you'd never complain about me pinning you down though.” John bites his lip, smiles a little.

“It's getting pretty bad,” he says, shifting his feet. The pressure is there, and he can't help but clench and unclench his fists, the urge to grab himself increasing.

“Yeah?” Tim asks. He seems to consider it for a moment. “Does it make it worse that you can see the toilet but not use it?”

“Yes,” John whines, sulking into the tile wall. Tim shifts a little closer. “Babe, you're gonna get pee on you.”

“I figure I'm already doing this, so I may as well, right,” he says, and John shrugs.

“Don't get mad at me if I pee on you though,” he says. Tim laughs once. He gets both of John's wrists in one hand above his head, the other hand pressing flat to his stomach again, and John jumps. “Shit.”

“Just. Let me, okay?” Tim says, and John nods, even though he's visibly fidgeting. Tim pushes on John's stomach, and John yelps, clamping his legs shut. 

“Can I just go in the toilet?” John asks, fighting Tim's grip a little, so Tim just lays his weight into John, his hand pressing lower, right into his bladder.

“Nope,” Tim says. “You're gonna have to piss yourself sooner or later. I'm going to make you do it.” John nearly does it right then, feels his cock jerk. He clenches his fists.

“Please,” John says.

“I said no,” Tim says. He wedges his thigh between John's, forcing him to spread his legs a bit, which just makes it worse. John's legs shake a bit. “You can keep begging though. It's cute.”

“Tim,” John says, the pressure starting to become unbearable, “please let me go.”

“You can,” Tim says. “You're allowed. But you're going to do it right here all over both of us, or not at all.”

“Fuck,” John whimpers, his head falling back against the shower wall. He looks up at the ceiling. He supposes he asked for this. “I can't hold it.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks. He moves his hand back up to John's wrists, holding them both and pushing into John's hips with his own.

“Stop, stop,” John gasps, trying to close his legs, but Tim's is in the way. “Let me go, _please_.”

“What if I'm enjoying this?” Tim remarks, and John sobs a laugh, looking away from him, over his shoulder at the toilet. 

John is pretty sure he's never had to pee this bad in his entire life.

“You're _mean_ ,” John whines. He squirms under Tim's grip but he holds him still. Tim lifts his thigh up into John's crotch and the sudden pressure is enough to make John lose it, if only for half a second. He starts to leak and it soaks through his jeans, and Tim's breath catches audibly, his eyes meeting with John's, and John feels it.

“Oh,” Tim says.

“Are you hard?” John asks.

“I'm – yeah, fuck,” Tim says. “Shit.”

“I thought you said-” John goes to say.

“Can we talk about this later?” Tim asks. “I'm in the middle of trying to get you to piss yourself.” John bites into his lip, whines. Tim knees him again, his blue eyes dark, daring John to do it, taunting him, testing him. “Babe, c'mon,” he says. “Want you to do it. On both of us. Give it to me.”

John finally goes silent. He knows Tim well enough to know he's not just putting it on anymore. He actually wants it.

John can't help but give it to him.

He finally lets go, a soft moan of relief slipping out as he does, soaking his jeans almost instantly. There's the loud hiss and the splatter as it hits the shower floor, and Tim just pushes into it even more as John pisses all over the both of them. There's the friction of wet fabric on wet fabric, and even as it starts to die off, John's getting hard. He relaxes into the shower wall and Tim lets his wrists go, grabbing at the line of John's cock through his jeans.

“Oh, shit,” John gasps, the sudden touch overwhelming. He's sensitive, and Tim shifts back to look down at them, and it's the first time John spares a look too. Tim's leg is drenched, black jeans still shining in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. The whole shower smells of it in the best way.

“C'mere,” Tim says, grabbing John and smashing their mouths together. John lets Tim pin him to the wall and lick into his mouth. John ruts back into him, feeling Tim hard in his jeans, and John moans softly.

“Want this,” he says, lips still brushing Tim's as he grabs at the hard line of Tim's cock. “Please.” Tim nods, stepping back a bit to give John space to undo his jeans and reach in. He fumbles Tim's cock out, working it with a wet hand, and Tim grabs at John. Tim pulls John's length out, his skin wet and slick as Tim starts moving his fist around him. “Fuck,” John sighs, pulling Tim closer again, dicking up into his hand.

“Good boy,” Tim purrs, mouthing a wet kiss at John's neck, and John shudders. He's still sensitive, still shaky, even as they're both grinding into each other and working each other's dicks.

“Please,” John says, and Tim pushes John's hand off him, wrapping a hand around both their cocks at once. John moans, fucks into it, hot skin on skin and he has to hold onto Tim to keep himself upright.

“You gonna cum?” Tim asks, and John nods, so Tim just keeps up his pace, letting John fall back against the shower wall again and lose himself in it. John cums quickly, spilling hot all over himself and Tim, and Tim follows suit pretty soon after.

John slumps against the wall, spent, as Tim reaches for the detachable shower head, washing his hands off.

“Ever take a fully clothed shower?” Tim asks, and John shakes his head, so Tim turns the shower head at him, spraying him with water. John squeals, still floaty in his state, shoving the shower head away.

“Oh my god, stop,” John laughs, and Tim hooks the shower head back up so it drenches both of them. Tim grabs John's face and kisses him.

“Thank you for telling me,” Tim says. “I love you.”

It's the first time Tim's said it, but John feels it. He knows he means it, knows he would do this all over again.

“Love you too,” John says, holding Tim's wrists, and Tim pulls him under the hot water.


End file.
